INTERVENTIONS
by jkwasher
Summary: Two alternative conclusions, written before and after S3E10, trying to come to grips with the cliffhanger. Others have done it better, these just popped up last summer.


**Author's Note: The following are a couple of alternates, the first written BEFORE A2A/SE10 aired but AFTER promos for A2A/S3E10… so I had no idea of the cliffhanger when I wrote it. Okay, so #1 is the simplest version, and what a fair number of us want, but we all know it won't be so easy on the air. I added a bit when editing, especially reference to 12/24/2014 CJ story "KA" – It's a **_**"What If…?"**_** -Vic intercepting Walt before he cleaned his guns. The second was written immediately **_**after**_** A2A, and although I prefer other author scenarios, some written by authors on these very pages, the second below is yet another way the cliffhanger might have resolved prior to responding to the inevitable call. No doubt the show writers will make it wonderfully messier, fey, painfully tangled, and we will hopefully love every second of it and for many more years, but these were two which just 'popped up' in my head last summer.**

**P.S. After a P.M. from a reader who made some valid suggestions, I will be updating "Survival." I will also be adding chapters there. I will incorporate flashbacks written last summer with an ongoing storyline. Er, all characters are those of the book creator, Craig Johnson, also now Netflix, and for me, these are momentary sandbox lapses, where I am playing in someone else's sandbox. Any "creator" mentioned on any of my pages refer to the man who created the Universe of Durant, just in case that wasn't clear in my other author's notes.**

**P.P.S. Per Vic's "3 P.P.S.'s"—I will add a profile soon. I'm an aspiring writer and admit always wanting to improve my fiction, although I understand some of the other writers may not choose that path. I have been accused of being a perfectionist, but I know that no one honestly ever is—some of us just try to get as close as possible. This is all written for fun in homage and is not remotely canon. Suggestions and corrections are welcome, name-calling, not so much. :o)**

**Intervention #1**

From her vantage point on the long porch, if she squinted, she thought she could see a tiny black speck in the hazy, late-afternoon distance. She was pretty sure she recognized his hat, but it would be a while before he got there, so she dropped the duffle she held and plunked down in the rocking chair, pulling her ball cap over her eyes. She was beat.

On top of a sparsely staffed sheriff's department and everything else which had happened in the last few weeks, most of her worldly possession sat behind a u-shaped lock in a storage locker on the fringe of Durant. She and the Ferg had spent all afternoon moving furniture and boxes she had been allowed no time to sort through. She had pulled four or five days' clothes from the boxes and rolled them into the duffle, which had been among the items thrown on the lawn. By dusty, hot mid-afternoon, she had left Ferg sweeping her place for occupation by new tenants the next day, with an admission she owed him. She was as dusty and dirty as the storage locker had been when they had first opened it, and not in the best of moods. It had been a sweeping day in more ways than one, from beginning to end.

Ruby had been sympathetic. "I could put you up, or maybe Cady. My son is visiting, though, not much room. Haven't seen Cady in a couple of days. I think she's taking some time after all that's happened."

All, indeed, a torrential flood of events for Absaroka County. She wondered if she was about to add a turbulent postscript to them if Walt turned her down. She didn't want Ruby to turn her home into a clown car, and didn't want to impose on Cady-she would make book that Branch still weighed heavy on Cady's mind. Maybe Ferg had a couch—but didn't he live with his parents?

"Did Walt call in?" she had asked Ruby; it wasn't like him to just not show up.

"He called from home; personal business he had to take care of today." Neither of them spoke to that, it was so out of his character, except for those two mysterious days every year when he disappeared on "personal business"…

So now she was at his cabin. After thinking back, his words on the bridge while she had focused on the Ridges car and later Nighthorse, had _sounded_ like a _suggestion_-that he "stay on" with her until the Branch situation was resolved, which in retrospect was because he knew Sean had filed divorce papers.

The reverse, since she was now homeless, might also mean that she "stay on" with _him_. It might be seen as an invitation—or not—but now, her soon-to-be-ex-husband was winging his way to Australia, having sublet the house and thrown her things on the lawn. Sean hadn't even asked or warned her about losing their home once the papers were signed. Didn't divorce imply _some _decisions together?

She knew why Sean was so upset – that despite his ultimatum, she hadn't given notice or quit her job, which implied unspoken loyalty to Walt over him. Then she had signed the divorce papers without demanding conversation or delays, or possible reconciliation, and well, there were admittedly her actions at Chance Gilbert's, bat-shit crazy didn't _begin_ to cover her frantic mood swings _that_ day. She didn't blame Sean for that, only for making things harder than they had to be for the both of them.

The horse was trotting up the road to the cabin, now, and yes, it was Walt. His hat pulled low, he rode the rangy black mare he had adopted after the night rodeo fiasco, and with some sort of saddle bag rigged behind him. It was a snapshot of an absolutely iconic man of the west, and her heart thudded in anticipation, just watching.

When he was close enough, she stood and stretched. "Look at you, gone all Marlborough Man," she said with gentle sarcasm. She tried to keep it light.

"Yes, ma'am," he touched his hat and half-smiled, swung down, loosely tethering Horse to the rail, and then jumped up the steps in a fluid motion. For an older guy, he could move just fine, but he seemed, somehow, _edgy_. She would not have him uncomfortable with her in any way, so maybe, maybe…she should just leave.

He eyed her duffle and raised a brow. She brazened it out.

"Sean sublet the place. The rest of my stuff is in a locker. I'll find another place tomorrow, but—" even as she noticed the underlying grimness behind the quizzical smile, the grey whorls on the thighs of his jeans, and what was poking from the saddlebag. Her eyes suddenly went to his. It puzzled her; some of the haunted look she associated with his habitual expression was missing. He almost looked—relieved?—to see her. He hadn't even used the expression he _typically_ used when irritated at someone's presence, "What are you doing here?" Maybe he _wasn't_ irritated…maybe, he was…_grateful?_

So instead, she tentatively asked, "Martha?" pointing toward his thighs, smeared with what she recognized from too many crime scenes as ashes.

He half-nodded and shrugged agreement. "I made my peace with her this morning," he announced, as though he were surprised himself.

She put her hand over her mouth and inhaled. She had just invaded his space after a very private moment for such a private man. Exhaled. "I should go. I can stay at—"

His arm snaked out, his large, rough hand resting loose along her forearm. "_Stay_." His touch stopped her; she remembered a similar moment only weeks ago, and the devastating effect upon her when he had enveloped her in his arms.

Then she blinked. Confusion. As _sheriff_ he had asked her to stay only days before—to stay as _deputy_…but nothing personal had _ever_ been spoken between them since the Gorski episode, although he had held her in the examining room after being shot by Chance.

She licked her lips. "Is that the _sheriff_ or the _man_ talking?" she asked cautiously. She hoped the uncertain funk she felt was not betrayed in her voice.

He held her eyes as he unpinned the heavy star that was so part of him from his jacket. He pocketed it. His left hand still along on her forearm.

"_Stay_," he said again, in that soft voice, the one she always thought of as the beguiling one.

Possibilities blossomed in her head. Her heart stuttered; she was afraid to hope.

There would be consequences; in a small town, there were _always _consequences.

She met his gaze, for verification, and received it. It had always been eyes 101 between them, but – now that she was free, and if he had finally made a pact with Martha to move on…

She swallowed. Hard. Once. The earnest and intent look, maybe a touch of anguish, still burned there in his eyes, on his face. _A spark for her, there, lit his eyes._

She exhaled, nodded to him and grabbed at her duffle. His hand moved from her forearm to hold the door open for her.

When met with the comparative coolness inside the cabin, her eyes met his, she was met by a mixture of joy and relief on his face that she had never witnessed before, and there was no need for further words. It overwhelmed her.

She dropped her duffle and threw herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist, her face in his hair, notes of leather, horse, and sweat, and more, there. Only momentarily startled, he wrapped his long arms around her, securing her there.

"Well, okay, then," she murmured into his ear.

**Intervention #2**

**Author's Note: Written immediately AFTER S3E10 Ashes to Ashes; one *possible* interpretation. Others have taken this in different directions.**

He could feel his heart thudding against his chest, and he kept glancing at the loaded rifle sitting beside him. He felt at once sick, yet vindicated. He would get revenge for Martha.

The Bullet swept around the bend on its mission of death, but he slammed on the brakes, as the most curious roadblock in Wyoming spread across the gravel road in front of him. Three cars were positioned sideways, fence-line to fence-line, totally cutting him off from passing in the ditches.

As the brakes successfully stopped him before plowing into the spectacle, his anger rose. He had committed; he could not let this dissuade him.

In the middle was Vic, standing hipshot, her lips pursed, face stony and set. Determined. Her truck would be destroyed if he tried to ram through, and probably her as well. She was formidable, for of course, he could not bear to hurt her again.

To the left was Henry, leaning lazily against Rezdawg. He had learned long ago not to discount Henry's easy appearance; he might jump you in the next moment. Special Forces had left his friend with many special skills, some deadly.

To the right was Cady, his precious Cady, who so reminded him of Martha with her clear gray eyes, a look, her SUV also positioned to stop him. She was still inside, window down, talking on her phone, but gravely watching his approach.

Together they formed a chain. _A human chain of those who loved him most…_or at least,he_ thought _they did_, _and at the very leastthey were probably wondering why he was not at Henry's party.

"Hello, Henry," Walt said as he stepped from the Bullet and approached his best friend. Might as well not let them suspect his plans for Nighthorse. "What's this all about?"

"Hello, Walt," Henry said affably. "Why are you not at my party?" Those were very nearly the words in his head. He and Henry had always been close. Was he so transparent to them all, or just Henry?

Vic stalked towards the Bullet, peered in and swung out and unloaded the rifle in one fluid motion. It was oddly titillating, the stuff male fantasies might be made from—the beautiful woman casually unloading a rifle. "What the hell, Walt?" she demanded, a not unusual greeting for her, but definitely a more pissed-than-usual version.

"If this is what it looks like, Walt, and I'm pretty sure it is," she went on without waiting for his non-answer, "I'm not going to do the notification after Strand shoots you in the back." To his dismay, she plucked off her badge and threw her gun into The Bullet with the unloaded rifle. "And, I'm not going to be your pen-pal or conjugal cutie when they plunk you in Rawlins, nor stay back at the office wrapped in bubble wrap anymore, like I have been the last few weeks, while you went solo. I _quit_."

She met his eyes, then hers flitted down his front, to his thighs and knees. She was not checking him out, she was putting pieces together, it was one of the things he loved about her most. Yes, _loved_. Her nostrils flared momentarily, but she softened, a little. "Are those—_ashes_?"

"Martha," he nodded in agreement. "I finally let her go this morning."

"So," Vic said, her eyes huge, moving back to his, her throat sounding thick, voice husky with hurt, "the _living_ don't count?"

He couldn't speak. He could only tell her with his eyes, that what she had said wasn't true. He wasn't sure it got through to her. In his experience, eyes could sometimes be unreliable, but was even surer that if he opened his mouth, he was bound to screw it up.

Cady stepped out of the Jeep, took a deep breath. "Dad –you said goodbye to Mom _without_ me?"

That set him back, to the sensation of Martha slipping through his fingers, scattered to the winds, and back into his head, where he had resided all morning.

But Cady was suddenly in his space, shaking him, shaking her head vehemently. "Dad. Is Vic right about the gun? You taught me to always use Rule of Law. You have always told me to do what was right, use the law, to go where the evidence leads you, that vigilantes are lawless."

It hit him like a body blow, but it was Henry who administered the _coup de gras. _He pulled a mason jar from out of Rezdawg and held it up.

"Hector's Job Jar. It may have some of the evidence we need for Nighthorse, and I believe together we can assemble more." He paused. "The past few days, Vic, crying into her beer, has indicated that Branch may be holding back some Cheyenne grave locations from Cassandra's." He continued, while enduring a glare from Vic which would have felled lesser men, "She has also mentioned several very salient points to make your department more effective—Kevlar vests, a cell phone for the sheriff, and…working together as a team, no more going off alone. Maybe you should even hire someone to go undercover. We _all_ need to be in the loop for this one, Walt. We know Strand and Nighthorse are working together, and we really do not know the extent of the corruption, yet…"

It was all too much to take in at once. _Ambushed, by his own._ He stood rooted, a mass of indecision, while his inner self raged, _No distractions!_

Vic's cell phone began to vibrate. She ignored it, her eyes still on his. Whether or not she understood _his_ glances, he certainly understood this deeply disappointed and mutinous one from _her_.

Suddenly the radio in the Bullet began to crackle, and Ruby's husky voice penetrated the dusty late-afternoon haze.

"Walter! Walter! Base to Unit 1, 911 call, there's been a shooting at the Barlow Connally Ranch…"

Like an old warhorse and without thinking, he acted out of habit, reached into the Bullet for the radio and keyed the mike.

"It's me. Who reported it, Ruby?"

"Oh, thank goodness, Walt. The Ferg was here when it came in a couple of minutes ago, but I think it was Branch who called, I don't know who to send! I can't just send the Ferg…Vic's not answering. Where _is _everybody, anyway?"

Walt huffed briefly. His inner self receded at Ruby's voice. His mission had been effectively aborted— at least for today, he amended. He was not sure when and if, or if Henry's new evidence would pan out, but…he had a duty he had sworn to perform, and it must supersede that mission.

"Vic's here," he said, and grabbed her badge and gun, holding them out to her. He could see Cady out of the corner of his eye, all the color leached out of her face. He hoped for her sake it was not Branch who was shot.

"Quit tomorrow if you want," he said gruffly to Vic, but we owe Branch today."

Vic only hesitated a second before grabbing her gear; he was not surprised. They all owed Branch; he had pursued Ridges even when none of them had believed him. Still, she had to let him know she was not happy, swearing colorfully even as she holstered her weapon, re-pinned the badge to her belt, and jumped into her truck, gunning it out of her blockade position.

Walt carefully navigated around Rezdawg, following her, and together they spun a cloud of dust, lights flashing and sirens wailing down the quiet valley. In his rearview mirror he could see Rezdawg and Cady's jeep gallantly attempting to keep pace. Rezdawg might not make it, but he definitely wanted to get there before Cady.

The world kept going to hell.


End file.
